I'll Be Your Distraction
by xgossamerstars
Summary: Pickles x Toki. I don't own Metalocalypse, so don't sue me.
1. Chapter 1

"Fuckin' ribbon an' tissue paper an' shit," Pickles mumbled angrily. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, sprinkling ashes over his work surface as he talked to himself. The remnants of the bong he'd smoked a few minutes ago littered the floor, and there was a Long Island Iced Tea in a glass nearby. Pickles found that wrapping Christmas presents was much easier when one was slightly stoned and a little bit tipsy. It was also marginally more fun—the bright colors of the wrapping paper were jumping out at him in a pleasantly vibrant way.

Unfortunately, the whole tying-a-bow thing was not easier. It was in fact a thousand times more difficult, and Pickles was about to throw the box (which contained a customized PS3, twenty video games, and a variety of candies) across the room. He should have just gotten the Klokateers to wrap his presents like most everyone else had, instead of insisting upon doing it himself, but that felt kind of wrong, considering to whom the gift was being given—Toki always wrapped his own presents.

Coming to a decision to take a breather, Pickles snatched up his glass and took a long, burning swallow. He really hoped Toki liked the present. Or present**s**, depending upon how one looked at it...

The band did a sort of secret-Santa thing for one another ever year. It had been a tradition they had started in the early days years ago, and even now, long after their staunch not-caring rule had been put into place, they still did it. It brought them a little closer together, and reminded them where they had come from...something they needed to remember every now and then.

This year, Pickles had drawn Toki's name. He had no idea who had his name, or who anyone else had, but the last time Pickles had had Toki's name he'd only been able to afford to get the kid a five dollar Rammstein t-shirt. Toki had flipped his shit in childish excitement. These days, though, a Rammstein t-shirt wouldn't cut it, and Pickles had been at a complete loss. He had finally settled on the customized PS3 (it was emblazoned with Toki's name in fiery blue colors on a black background and it had a lifetime warranty—if broken, it would be replaced with an identical, brand-new one even if Toki lived to be eighty), the twenty games (most of them were anime-style, an obsession in which Toki was entirely alone) and a whole shit-ton of candy. Just the sight of all that chocolate had made Pickles's stomach ache.

He hoped it would be good enough. He loved watching the kid open his gifts on Christmas day, because Toki always got so damn _excited_. The expression 'like a kid on Christmas' had never fit any grown man as well as it fit Toki, and Pickles could never help but smile when he saw Toki's face as the younger man ripped into his gifts.

A loud knock on his door startled Pickles out of his thoughts so sharply that he spilled his drink all down the front of his ragged old Snakes 'N Barrels t-shirt. Jumping to his feet, he held the thin, wet cloth away from his chest and hollered, "Get yer ass in here!"

The door squeaked open and Toki's stepped halfway inside the door, eyes tightly closed. "Ifs yous drawed my name I's sorries, I's leave!"

It was odd for Toki to be visiting at this hour the night before Christmas—he was usually already asleep. It was odd for anyone to be visiting, actually, since they all avoided one another Christmas eve night as they wrapped their gifts so that no one would have any idea who drew which name.

Pickles's eyes shifted to the wrapped box on his table, but he had yet to put a name tag on it—all was safe. He motioned for Toki to come on inside and skinned out of his wet t-shirt.

"What're ya doin' here, kid? Figured ya'd already be sleepin', waitin' on Santa." Pickles rifled through his drawers, looking for another t-shirt.

"I can'ts sleeps at all," Toki said, "And nobodies woulds be lettings me hangs out withs them, cause of the secretness." he sat down on the edge of Pickles's unmade bed, picking at a loose thread in his cloud-covered pajama pants. He wasn't wearing much else, and Pickles tried to pretend that it was just envy that made his eyes linger on Toki's abs a split second longer than perhaps they should have.

"Why the hell are ya runnin' around half-naked, chief?" Pickles asked as he threw on a black wifebeater. It was warm in his room, warm in all the rooms, but the corridors were freezing and Toki's room was on the complete opposite end of the hall.

Toki looked at him quizzically. "Is nots cold outs there, nots at all. Yous gots to 'member I growed up in Norway. Always colds there."

"Good point," Pickles replied. "So ya can't sleep, eh? Need some help? Got plenty a' tranks—"

Toki shook his head and cut the drummer off. "Tonights nots a good nights for sleepins, Pickle...ands most definitelies nots a drug sleep."

Pickles narrowed his eyes, forcing his slightly blurry vision to focus. Now that he looked at him, Toki did seem a little strange. He was paler than usual, and he seemed to be on edge, more jittery than Pickles himself got when he was forced to go without weed or alcohol for extended periods of time.

"Whatsa matter?" Pickles asked, sitting down beside the guitar player. "Yer not getting sick, are ya?"

Toki shook his head and looked up at the high ceiling. "Is...nothings like that. I's just havings a bads nights, I guess."

"Whaddya mean a bad night? It's Christmas eve, kid, figured that'd be yer favorite night a' the year."

Toki smiled weakly. "Usualies is, whens I still gots presents to wraps and stuffs to do so's I can falls asleep likes I s'posed to."

"Did ya get yer shit done early or somethin' this year?" Pickles asked.

Toki nodded. "Reals early. I's had the gifts wrappeds up fors days now. Really be hopins my person like it."

"A' course he will," Pickles remarked absently, trying to put his finger on what exactly was bugging the younger man. "Well what's that gotta do with ya not bein' able t' sleep?"

"I sucks at wrappins presents so it takes a longs times an' makes me tireds," Toki answered, and held up his hand. It was covered in tiny papercuts. "And since I's usually be wrappins presents on Christamas eves, I's can usuallies goes to sleep and nots think sos much, but this years I went and dids it earlies and nows I'm thinkin to much and I can'ts be sleepin and this hasn't happens to me since the veries first years we hads the band and I can'ts be rememberins how to be dealins with it..."

As he spoke, Pickles could see the hurricane swirling in the pools of Toki's eyes, gathering momentum, gathering insanity, working up toward one hell of a storm. The kid had drawn his knees up to his broad chest and was shivering despite the warmth of Pickles's room.

"Toki," Pickles said, his drug-and-drink altered mind wanting to panic. "Toki, kid, calm down, talk t'me, okay? Whatsa matter with ya?" He laid a hand on Toki's bare back and the raised scar tissue made his skin crawl—not because he was repulsed, but because feeling the scars made him think of just what had caused them, and Pickles blocked any abuse except substance abuse entirely out of his mind.

"I keeps rememberins Christamases in Norway," he mumbled into his knees. "Ands how they was nothins likes this, nothins at all...I nevers got presents in Norway, yous know."

Pickles had figured as much. Aslaug and Anja didn't seem to be the gift-giving types.

"We's didn'ts even eats..." Toki's voice had dropped into a near stage whisper as he lost himself in his memories, a place he desperately avoided and a place from which his bandmates desperately tried to keep him.

"Whaddya mean ya didn't eat? I thought th' Norwegians had th' best Christmas food ever," Pickles asked. This confession had actually surprised him.

Toki shook his head. "Every ones else did—everyones else _celebrateds_. We prayeds...and...fasteds? I thinks thats what Father calleds it...hads like breads and water once a days for twelves days..."

"That's fuckin' ridiculous," Pickles said flatly. He couldn't fathom that any family would make Christmas such a painful ritual, even a family as fucked up and weird as Toki's.

"I stole foods once," Toki mused. He was really far away now—he was barely even acknowledging Pickles's comments. "Outs of the stores house. I thinks I was sevens...didn't gets my daily breads for two days after that, they hungs me by the wrists..."

The hand Pickles had put on Toki's scarred back snaked its way around to the opposite shoulder, pulling the shaking Norwegian close into Pickles's arms. He held him there, horrified, mumbling inane things about how Toki would never have to go back to Norway again, he'd have more than enough to eat for the rest of his life, how Pickles would make damn sure Toki would always have the best Christmas present humanly possible, how no one would ever hurt him ever again, God damn it, not if Pickles had anything to do with it...but that last bit only ran through Pickles's mind. He wanted to say it, wanted to badly, because he meant it...but he wasn't sure how Toki would respond to such an awkward promise, and so he kept it to himself.

"I's just cant's stops the rememberins," Toki mumbled into Pickles's chest. "I wants to, I does, but I can'ts and there's nothins to be distractins me, wrappin presents does buts I don't haves nothin to wraps and the guitar don'ts work and the models plane doesn'ts work. I wants them to goes away, I likes Christamas, I don'ts wanna fucks it up..."

Suddenly, Toki's babbling ceased—his lips were now otherwise occupied, and the moment after Pickles pulled away, he looked just as shell-shocked as Toki.

Sitting up, leaving one arm around Pickles's waist, Toki touched his lips with his opposite hand and blinked a few times.

"...whats...whats was thats for?" Toki asked.

Pickles felt his pale cheeks burning. "Er...ya said ya needed t' be distracted..."

Toki _was_ distracted. Thoroughly.

"...buts...boys don'ts kiss boys. Does they?" the storm in Toki's eyes was fading now, giving way to clouds of confusion.

"Er...well...ya needed it," Pickles muttered, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand and wondering what in the hell he had just done and why the hell he found himself wanting to do it again.

"Wills you does it agains?"

It was Pickles's turn to blink in astonishment. "Ya...ya _want_ me to?"

"Is nice," Toki replied. "I likes this kinds of distractings."

Pickles complied, fitting his lips against Toki's and pressing gently. He shuddered when Toki's mouth opened underneath his. They kept their hands to themselves for the time being, like two shy teenagers having their first real kiss.

This time, when Pickles pulled back, he was daring enough to smile slightly and ask whether or not Toki was distracted.

Toki's hand curled into the drummer's dreads. "Distractsded from whats?"

This time, there was nothing shy about the kiss. Pickles reveled in the feel of Toki's lips on his; the soft nibbling of teeth on the tip of his tongue thrilled him the way no drug in the world ever had or ever could. As he and Toki moved to the middle of the bed, hands snaking under shirts and legs tangling together, he had a feeling that Christmas had come just a little bit early...


	2. Chapter 2

Christmas had come and gone, and it had come and gone awhile ago, if one wanted to be picky about it. It was so far gone by now that Pickles found himself longing for the bone-numbing cold that filled the corridors of Mordhaus during the winter. At least his room was always warm enough to suit him during the wintertime—during the summer months, he felt as if nothing would ever cool him off completely, not even the state-of-the-art air conditioning units or the rooftop pool. He walked around in nothing but gym shorts, his dreads twisted up in a bun and a cold glass of something fruity in his hand, and still felt as if he would sweat out his buzz before it even got started. He'd hated Wisconsin, but during the summer, he'd have killed to go back. It was hot there, but not i_this/i _kind of hot.

Only one other member of Dethklok was as affected by the heat as Pickles. Toki Wartooth, having grown up in the bitter blizzards of Norway, seemed to wilt when June rolled around. The kid could frolic around in the snow of Mordland for hours wearing nothing but a long sleeved tshirt, jeans, and boots, but once summer began, 'frolic' was not a word that existed in relation to the youngest member of the band. The heat took something out of him, _weakened _him somehow, and it always threw Pickles for a loop to see how low the kid could get once the temperance of May faded into the hell of June. He himself didn't like the heat, but it mostly just pissed him off—it seemed to affect Toki mentally as well as physically.

It was a particularly humid day in the middle of July when Pickles, sitting next to Skwisgaar in the shallow end of the rooftop pool, asked why Skwisgaar didn't seem to mind the heat like Toki did—after all, Sweden was pretty cold too, wasn't it, and hadn't Skwisgaar grown up there?

Skwisgaar shrugged, flexing his long fingers beneath the rippled water. "I wasn'ts really in Sweden dats long," he replied. He flexed his fingers again, and Pickles sensed that they were drifting into dangerous, uncharted territory. No one in the band knew anything about Skwisgaar's past except that his mother had been a filthy slut and that Skwisgaar had hated her. Pickles knew he shouldn't ask, because asking was caring and they weren't supposed to care—but he asked anyway.

"Well where were ya then?" he took a sip of the tequila sunrise in his hand as Skwisgaar flicked little water droplets into the air and watched them fall.

"Alls over," he replied. "Spents lots of time ins da hot places, so dis doesn't bothers me like it does Toki."

Pickles scrutinized Skwisgaar's face as the blond said Toki's name—when Skwisgaar had found Pickles that summer in New York (had it been as hot there as here?), he'd had Toki trailing along behind him like some loyal puppy, skinny and silent and unable to speak any English other than curse words. Pickles had always assumed that there had been something there between the two of them. Even last winter, on Christmas Eve, when Toki had come to him shaking and shivering the throes of his worst memories…

Pickles shook his head, hard. One of his wet dreads slapped his cheek and Skwisgaar gave him an odd look.

"Gnats," Pickles muttered, even though there were no gnats in Mordland, or mosquitoes, either. He looked at Skwisgaar beneath his lowered, blondish-red lashes, and saw nothing to suggest that Skwisgaar felt anything much for Toki.

Then again, Skwisgaar didn't feel anything much for anyone, and if that had something to do with his slut mother, then Pickles wouldn't be surprised. He also wouldn't be the one to ask.

"PICKLES! SKWISGAAR!"

Nathan's voice thundered toward them from across the roof, where the doorway was. He and Murderface were running at full speed toward the Olympic-sized pool, wearing their swim trunks. This kind of heat was like a fucking upper to the two of them—Nathan, from Florida, loved summertime more than any season. Murderface did too. He was actually from Alabama, and the two southern boys reveled in the humidity and heat like children.

There was a splash of tidal proportions as Nathan and Murderface—neither of them very small—cannonballed into the deep end together. The look of indignation on Skwisgaar's thin face when the water reached his yellow hair made Pickles howl with laughter, and though he was thoroughly enjoying the moment, he felt the gnawing at a certain raw edge of his heart. Toki wasn't here.

i_And it's not just that Toki isn't here with you,/i _said the oddly toneless voice of his conscience.i _It's that Toki isn't here with you./i_

Pickles could determine the plural i_you/i_ from the singular. Suddenly, the tequila in his stomach was no longer a pleasant sensation—it was making him feel a little sick. Deciding that maybe now would be a good time to go to his room and dig up a little weed, he handed Skwisgaar his still-full tequila sunrise and stood. He pulled the soaked fabric of his trunks away from his crotch and walked, still dripping, toward the roof exit.

"Pickles! Where ya going?" Nathan asked, his jet hair plastered to his skull and face.

"Weed!" Pickles hollered back. "Be back later!"

He slammed the door behind him and dripped his way down the corridors and to his room—some Klokateer would clean up behind him, and if the manager complained, it was because there wasn't much else Charles could do to him.

He slammed the door to his room and cast his bed the barest of glances—it had been a strange place to sleep ever since Christmas Eve, but it wasn't Pickles' fault he had woken up alone on Christmas morning.

Christmas was a bizarre thing to be thinking about in the middle of July, that was for damn sure. Pickles stripped off his wet clothes and flung them in a corner of his room. He stood naked beneath one of the air conditioning vents for a little while, relishing the fact that he actually had fucking i_gooseflesh/i _creeping across his pale, freckled skin. He almost had a hard time deciding which he wanted more—to be high, or to enjoy the blissfully cool air.

Weed won, as it always did. Pickles pulled on a dry pair of gym shorts over his narrow hips before ripping open his bottom drawer and pawing through the jumble of jars, Ziploc bags, wooden boxes and miniature vials. He came up with a tightly sealed Ziploc bag filled with little green buds. He opened the bag and inhaled—it smelled like heaven to him.

He had just packed himself a bowl and was in the process of pawing through the junk atop his dresser for a lighter when he heard a heavy, dull i_thud/i _from somewhere in the corridor. Startled, he went to his door and opened it just enough to peek through the crack. What he saw made his stomach do a backflip or two—Toki was leaning his back against the corridor wall, holding a bottle of Grey Goose in one hand. The other was tangled into the mess of his hair, which looked as if it hadn't seen a comb in days.

"Toki?" Pickles asked, opening the door the rest of the way. "Toki, kid, ya okey?"

"Fuckins fabulous," Toki replied, pushing himself away from the wall with an obscene roll of his back and hips. He stumbled forward a little, managing to slosh vodka down the front of his bare chest. Pickles forced his eyes away from the little drops of liquid that slipped down the carved landscape of Toki's abs and tried to focus on the problem at hand—Toki was drunk again, and a drunk Toki could be a dangerous one.

"I jest packed a bowl, if ya wanna hit," Pickles said, holding up the little glass instrument in his hand. "Bring in the vahdkah, too, if ya want."

He'd have to get that vodka away from Toki—he'd play hell doing it, but it had to be done, one way or another. When Toki was more or less sober, he could ask what the hell had brought on this particular drinking binge.

Toki stumbled into Pickles' room, setting the half-full (or was it half-empty?) bottle of vodka on the nightstand. He accepted the bowl and lighter from Pickles, lighting up with shaky hands but breathing in like a pro.

"Feel better?" asked Pickles, breathing in the sweet smoke himself.

"Ja," Toki muttered, accepting the bowl from Pickles again. They passed it back and forth a few times. Pickles sat down beside Toki on the bed and tried not to give in to his feelings of deja-vu.

"Dat's good shit," Toki mumbled a little while later, and groped for the vodka bottle on the nightstand. He grabbed it around the neck and prepared himself to take a deep swig, but Pickles caught his hand before he could bring the bottle to his lips.

"Do ya really need ta do this, Toki?" he asked, half expecting his youngest bandmate to suddenly transform into the feral monster that the liquor sometimes turned him into.

"Needs somethingks to distracts me," Toki grumbled, and drank despite the gentle hand on his arm.

i_This is déjà vu for fucking real,/i _Pickles thought.

"Distract ya from what?"

"Talks about somethingks else," Toki demanded, and took another swallow.

"Why'd ya leave on Christmas mornin?"

The words were out of his mouth before Pickles even realized that they had formed in his brain—but it obviously distracted Toki, who choked hard on his mouthful of vodka and began to cough.

Pickles thumped him on the back a few times until Toki, still sputtering a little, looked over at him with wide, bloodshot eyes.

"W-whats you talkingks 'bout, Pickle…?"

"Christmas mornin. Ya weren't there."

The vodka bottle thumped to the floor and the remainder of its contents trickled out across the hardwood. Pickles didn't even notice, and neither did Toki.

"You…was you i_wantingks/i _me to stays?" Toki asked, looking back at the bed where they'd slept, tangled up together, that one night so many months ago.

Pickles tugged absently on a loose dreadlock. "Yeah, well…woulda been nice."

"Buts you…you was all highs and drunks dat night," Toki said. "I thoughts…dat maybes dat was de only reasons you does dat. Withs me."

Pickles inhaled sharply and closed his eyes—having his alcohol and drug abuse thrown back in his face in situations like this always hurt, because he could explain to Toki that he'd made the first move out of emotion all he wanted, but Toki would still think that it had been the booze and weed.

"It…" Toki took Pickles' fisted hand into his. "It…it wasn'ts cause of dats. Was it?"

Pickles shook his head.

"Den…den why was you actingks like dat?"

Pickles let his mind wind back through the months to the night of Christmas Eve, when Toki had come to him seeking distraction from the memories that plagued his mind. It had been winter, obviously, the time of year when Toki was most cheerful, most happy…but he hadn't been happy that night. He had been pale, jittery and weak, unable to keep himself from slipping backward into hellish thoughts of Christmases past. Pickles remembered how Toki's bright blue eyes had clouded as he relived that past out loud; he remembered how he had ended up with Toki wrapped in his arms, remembered the feel of Toki's breath on his chest as he rapidly whispered his fears, remembered the weird texture of Toki's back where the scars crisscrossed…remembered pressing his lips against Toki's in his best effort to get the kid's mind of the things that hurt him, because…

"I jest can't fuckin' stand seein' ya so miserable," Pickles muttered at length. "Yeh're the best one of us, even though yah've been through the worst of us, yah know? And yeh're normally so fuckin' i_happy/i. _You bein' happy makes us all happier, b'lieve it or not, and when yeh're not…not so happy…I jest can't fuckin take it, Toki, it hurts me t' see ya hurtin."

He fell silent, staring at the tiny holes in the silky material of his gym shorts as if they were very, very fascinating. He only looked up when he felt Toki's fingers snaking down into the ball of his fist to twine with his own.

"I's not knowingks," Toki mumbled, "Dat anyone's give a damns when I's…how's you sayingks it? Not so happy…"

"Yeah, well," Pickles grinned, a little shyly. "We all give a damn, b'lieve me, but ah…seems like it affects me more'n it does the rest o' the guys."

"Good, 'cause you's da ones I wants to be talkins to da most…"

"Fer real? Why me?"

Toki raised one eyebrow; the expression coupled with his bleary unfocused eyes would have been comical in any other situation.

"Cause you's is da one it 'fects the most…so you's da one dat cares da most. You's makes me feel more betters dan anyones else could." he replied. Pickles found himself smiling an absurd smile; he was on the brink of throwing his arms around the kid, but then Toki hiccupped a little. Pickles' eyes wandered to the floor where the abandoned bottle of vodka lay. He bit his lip for a moment.

"Toki? Could yeh do me a favor…?" he asked. When Toki nodded, Pickles stood up and picked up the empty vodka bottle. As he sat down next to Toki, he put it in the younger man's hands.

"Come to me before this next time?"

Toki stared at the bottle for a long moment before shifting his gaze to Pickles. The drummer half-suspected Toki to say no; instead, the guitarist dropped the bottle again as he threw his big arms around Pickles's skinny torso.

i_"Ja,"/i _Toki muttered, his lips pressed against Pickles's thin chest. "I will."

A weird wave of deja-vu enveloped Pickles as he pulled Toki upward and into a kiss; it felt like Christmas. Christmas in July.


End file.
